


One Fucking Thing After Another

by yuletide_archivist



Category: History Boys - Bennett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The news of Lockwood's death makes Dakin cling even harder to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Fucking Thing After Another

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Peak in Darien

 

 

Oddly enough, it was Lockwood's death that forced contact. Dakin received an envelope from his mother in the mail a couple of days after it happened. The envelope, one of the cheap ones from the corner store, the sort Dakin wished his mother wouldn't use, contained a cutting from the local paper and a note scrawled on the back of her grocery list: _Didn't you go to school with this boy?_

"Yes," Dakin murmured to the note as he stood there in the doorway of his flat, half in and half out. He was stunned to stillness by the news, not that he was ever particularly _close_ with Lockwood, but god, he _knew him_ \--Lockwood was there through everything. Just like the rest of them. They made it through together.

Dakin stumbled into his flat and fumbled for the phone, wondering vaguely if Lockwood called for his mother or his father when he was dying, or if it was all too quick, if he felt nothing, if everything just went black. Was he brought to a hospital somewhere in the field, somewhere that should've been in a movie, with white sheets and concerned nurses with blush-stained cheeks and black curls sticking to their foreheads, or did he simply expire there in the dirt, unnoticed until it was too late, his helmet knocked into a puddle?

He called Irwin. He didn't remember dialling the number, but suddenly there was Irwin's voice on the other end of the line, unconcerned, inquiring a hello.

"Have you heard about Lockwood?" Dakin asked without preamble, causing Irwin to pause.

"Sorry...who is this?" Irwin asked, and Dakin's face fell. It had been six months since they'd last talked, since the night they'd spied each other across the pub and ended up snogging in a bathroom stall, Irwin's hand down Dakin's pants, leaving a mess behind.

"It's...hi. Stuart. Dakin."

Irwin paused for a moment, and the _hello_ that he voiced then was cautious, unpresupposing.

"Do you remember Lockwood, from Cutlers?" Dakin asked then, keeping his voice deliberate.

"Of course," replied Irwin, his voice just as uninflected.

"He's died."

"I--oh."

"Can I come over?"

He'd meant to tell, not ask, but the end result was the same.

* * *

Irwin let Dakin in the moment he knocked, as if he'd been waiting by the door. There were two wine glasses on the table, a bottle of some cheap red between them, unopened, but Dakin barely took in the sight before he turned to face Irwin, kissing him as soundly as he had in the pub that night, pressing him against the door.

"Bedroom," he growled, and they stumbled down the hallway together, tearing off clothes and leaving a path behind them. If Irwin wondered why Dakin was so eager, he didn't ask, just ripped off his jacket and shirt and vest, laying him across the bed and sucking a trail from his clavicle to his nipples to his navel.

"Just fuck me," Dakin snarled, and though he'd never had anything up there before but the very tip of his smallest finger, he wanted it more certainly than anything else he could possibly have wanted at the moment.

Irwin insisted on taking his time, being the second Irwin that Dakin remembered, the cautious one that he resented so much, lubricating and fingering Dakin's arsehole, easing himself in, when all Dakin wanted was to be fucked into some state of oblivion.

It hurt more than he expected. It hurt more than he could have imagined.

He should have realised how much it would hurt from the time he cringed when trying to insert his finger. But he thought maybe there was something different when it was someone else, but Jesus _Christ_ Irwin felt huge, and Dakin bit his lip and jammed his eyes closed and gripped anywhere, everywhere he could reach--the sheet, Irwin's flat arse--as he was jolted into some sort of indifference.

It was close enough.

He thought he should have felt Irwin coming inside him but honestly he didn't; there was no sensation of being filled any more than he already was, no sudden heat. Dakin only knew that Irwin was coming from the way he bit his lip and grunted and jerked forward _onetwothreethere_ and gasped and finally breathed again.

"Oh--you didn't--" Irwin said a moment later, after he'd slipped out of Dakin's arse and flopped down beside him on the bed.

"I--" said Dakin, not wanting to admit anything either way.

But Irwin sat up and bent over and peeled back Dakin's foreskin and took him in his mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and it took Dakin the smallest moment to process the fact that Irwin was actually _sucking him off_ , doing what Dakin had proposed so long ago in that empty classroom.

The reality of it was so much _more_ than anything the classroom echoes could have promised. The heat of Irwin's mouth-- _Irwin's_ , the first mouth that should have been there, the first mouth that _wasn't_ and not for lack of trying--was indescribable, and Dakin jerked up and let out a shocked _oh_ and came sooner than he would've liked.

He usually warned the girl before he came, but then Irwin wasn't a girl and there was hardly a warning for Dakin himself. Irwin's tongue did things Dakin had never experienced, never _imagined_ , and it was only moments into the too-long-neglected blowjob that Dakin cried out and flooded his former teacher's mouth with his come.

He didn't know if Irwin swallowed everything down or let it dribble onto the sheets or spat it into a convenient handkerchief, he only knew that Irwin's mouth tasted bitter and salty when they both leaned in for a kiss after too long a moment lying there unspeaking.

* * *

In the end, Dakin realised that the whole thing--not just the initial contact, but _everything_ \--happened because of Lockwood's death.

He stared at himself in the mirror in Irwin's minuscule bathroom, combing through the hairs on his chest as if that would accomplish anything, staring at the lone toothbrush in the cup on the sink. He longed to use it, though its bristles were worn and it was the furthest thing from being his.

The very real possibility of dying alone danced somewhere behind all the other thoughts vying for his attention, but Dakin didn't let it progress any further than that. He wasn't on a battlefield, after all. 

 


End file.
